Every Wild Heart Read online

  I imagined Nic sitting up in a hospital bed, unscathed but for a bit of dirt on her cheek, her brow knotted in concern over her beloved horse. This image arrived like a gift. I took a deep breath. “Right,” I said. “Thanks. I’m sorry I hit you. I was angry . . . well, that’s an understatement. It was a gut reaction.”

  Denny was about to say something when I noticed the man in scrubs walking across the waiting room toward us. I stood.

  “Mrs. Clement?” he said.

  “I’m Nic’s mother,” I answered, standing.

  He shook my hand. “Dr. Feldman. I’m the neurosurgeon in charge of the team that’s been treating your daughter. Nicola’s condition is stable. That’s the first thing you should know.”

  There was a feeling of air moving through my chest, like a valve had been opened and pressure released. Behind me, Denny made a small, relieved noise.

  “You can come back to see her now and I’ll fill you in on what we think is going on with her.”

  What they “think” is going on with her? Nic had been at the hospital for over an hour; shouldn’t he know exactly what was going on with her? Instantly, I disliked him, and loathed the fact that he had more control over my daughter’s health—her life—than I did.

  I grabbed my bag from the floor. “Thanks, Denny,” I said, turning toward him. “I’m sure Roy will give you a ride back to the barn.”

  “You’ll call me later? Let me know how she’s doing?”

  I assured him that I would call, and then turned my attention to the doctor.

  “We’re all very glad that your daughter was wearing a helmet,” Dr. Feldman said. He pulled open the door beside the reception desk and we entered a hallway that seemed strangely quiet. Another doctor walked by and nodded at Dr. Feldman, smiling. Was she part of the team he’d mentioned? She wouldn’t smile if Nic weren’t okay, would she? If Nic were in danger, surely the hospital would have been a swarm of activity. Doctors racing down the halls, sweating, barking updates and orders to each other. Dr. Feldman didn’t seem to be in much of a rush.

  “Nic always wears her helmet,” I told him. I spoke robotically, the words coming out without much connection to the rushing geyser of worry within me. “She loses the helmet, she loses the horse, that’s what I’ve always told her. She’d wear one anyway, though. That’s the way she is. She’s a very careful person.”

  But Denny had said that she tried to jump Tru over a tree. This made no sense. He must have been missing some key part of the story.

  “So she’s okay because she was wearing her helmet,” I continued. I’d meant this to be a question, but it came out as a statement. Dr. Feldman slowed. I needed to be getting closer to Nic, my body insisted on this, so I walked on. After a few steps, I glanced over my shoulder. Dr. Feldman was stopped in the middle of the hall, watching me.

  “Mrs. Clement, please wait a moment.”

  An annoyed sigh slipped from my mouth before I could zip it in. “It’s Gail Gideon, actually,” I said. Walking back toward him felt nearly impossible; every inch of my being wanted to go the other way, toward my daughter. “Call me Gail. I didn’t particularly love being called Mrs. Clement even when I was married to Mr. Clement.”

  Dr. Feldman squinted at me. I’d seen that look before: he recognized me now. But then he peered down at the clipboard in his hand and scribbled a note—my name, presumably—onto Nic’s chart right there in the middle of the hallway. In that moment, I warmed to him. He may have walked slow as hell but this guy wouldn’t let anything slip through the cracks. Also he was pale and his hair was a bit wild and I took both of these things as good signs—Dr. Feldman was too busy, too intensely occupied with saving lives, for sunlight and combs.

  “Gail,” Dr. Feldman said. “Why don’t we step into my office for a moment before we see your daughter? I can explain more about what’s going on with her.”

  I looked down the hall in the direction that we had been headed moments earlier. Nic was somewhere that way, lying in one of those rooms. I imagined myself breaking into a sprint, yelling my daughter’s name, barging into room after room until I found her.

  “Listen,” I said, turning back to Dr. Feldman. “Can’t you tell me here? I really need to see Nic.” My voice cracked on her name.

  He took pity on me. We moved to the side of the hall, leaving room for others to pass.

  “Nicola has a traumatic brain injury and has not fully regained consciousness yet. The good news is that she has responded to stimuli—”

  “She woke up?” I cut in, my heart pounding.

  “No, not fully. But she’s made noises and small movements in response to the administrations of my team. At a couple of points, her eyes opened, but they weren’t focused . . . she wasn’t awake. She has not spoken. There are no fractures in her skull—we can thank the helmet for that. There’s no indication of trauma to her spine. Your daughter does not have a single broken bone. She’s breathing on her own.” He spoke faster than he walked, but enunciated each word with care. “But the scan did show signs of swelling in her brain, so we are continuing to monitor her closely to determine our best course of action. We need to ensure that the blood supply to her brain is not at risk. If I don’t see improvement soon, I’ll want to insert a pressure-monitoring device in her brain—”

  “What? You want to put something in her brain?” That rush of fear and anger was back, making my ears ring.

  “Yes. We’ll drill a small hole into her skull—”

  Dr. Feldman abruptly stopped speaking and looked down, which was when I realized I was gripping his forearm. I released it. He rocked back on his heels. He didn’t understand. How could he? He could have cornered the market on the world’s empathy and still not have been able to fathom all that my daughter meant to me. She was the love of my life.

  “While she remains in a coma, the device is the best way to monitor her intracranial pressure and ensure that her condition doesn’t worsen,” he said.

  It seemed to me that the lights in the hall dimmed when he said the word “coma,” the floor shifting below my feet.

  “The scan can only show us so much and we want to be sure we’re gathering every bit of information about her condition that we can,” he continued. “Brain injuries are complicated, but the procedure to implant the monitoring device is not. Of course, every procedure carries a risk of complication, but it’s quite small in this case and—”

  “What sort of complication?”

  Dr. Feldman considered my question, his brown eyes liquid with a mix of intelligence and exhaustion. “You know what, Gail? Let’s not even have this conversation yet. Nicola is young, her blood pressure has remained within normal range . . . I’d like to give her a little more time before inserting the device. She’s stable now and we have every reason to hope for the best. Still, it’s important that I’m clear about the fact that your daughter is not yet out of the woods.”

  Ironic, that: “out of the woods.” If I had my way, my daughter would never go into the woods again. That morning she’d been sleepily spooning cereal into her mouth at the kitchen table and now she was lying unconscious in a hospital bed. None of this made any sense.

  I must have looked as bad as I felt because Dr. Feldman indicated that we could now continue walking. He glanced at his notes and then back at me.

  “How old is Nicola?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “And she’s in good health, generally speaking?”

  “Yes,” I said eagerly, because it was true. Nic only became ill when she had to do a presentation at school.

  “Is there any history of brain injury? Concussion? Any serious horseback riding injuries before today?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good.”

  He stopped abruptly in front of a door. Then he opened it.

  FOR A MOMENT, I was relieved. Nic looked like she was sleeping, just like Denny had said. She still had a bit of baby fat that lent a softness to her face, but every day there was less o
f it. I could see the beauty that she was becoming, and I almost smiled at the sight of my gorgeous daughter sleeping there on the hospital bed, tucked in tightly below blankets as though she were a young child. Her dark hair spilled around her face, her lips formed a perfect pale bow. What a ridiculous mistake! My daughter fell asleep and they rushed her to the hospital!

  Poor Nic, I thought. She’s going to be mortified.

  Even as I was having this little fantasy in my head, I was hurrying toward her. I stopped my hand inches from her arm.

  “Can I touch her?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Feldman said. “That’s the idea. And there’s no need to whisper. Let Nicola hear your voice. Let her feel you.”

  The moment I touched her arm, I began to cry. “I’m here, Nic,” I managed to choke out. I was probably squeezing her hand too tightly, but she didn’t move, and that only made me squeeze and sob harder. I wanted to throw my body on top of hers, hug her, cradle her in my arms, but I was afraid of hurting her.

  I couldn’t believe that the sound of my voice had not forced her to open her eyes.

  I realized then that I’d been so intent on getting to Nic’s side as quickly as possible because on some level I’d believed that I could fix her. I thought that there was no way she wouldn’t be okay if we were together. I believed there was magic in the mother-daughter bond, a sort of psychic power that could overcome any obstacle and set all things, no matter how dire, back on their proper course.

  But there we were, mother and daughter united, and Nic remained unconscious. I felt wobbly, my equilibrium stolen, but I did not let go of her hand. The nurse, a woman named Stephanie, pulled up a chair for me. I sat, still clinging to Nic’s cool, limp fingers.

  “There’s no reason to think that she can’t hear you,” Stephanie said.

  I nodded. I watched Nic closely, waiting for those flutters of movement that Dr. Feldman had told me he’d seen, but as far as I could tell the only sign of movement was her chest rising and falling below the blanket as she breathed.

  “I’ll be checking in regularly, and Stephanie or another nurse on the team will be in the room with Nicola at all times,” Dr. Feldman said. “I remain optimistic about what the next couple of hours hold for your daughter.”

  I nodded. I understood what he was saying. Nic had a couple of hours to regain full consciousness on her own, and if she did not, he would drill a hole through her skull.

  At first, I tried talking to her. I told her that I loved her. I told her that her father was on his way from London and would be with us as soon as he could. I told her that Tru was safe and uninjured.

  I begged her to open her eyes. Would I ever see their beautiful olive-green color again?

  “Please, Nic,” I said. “Please, please, please,” I said, as though the words were a prayer.

  And then, with Stephanie’s permission, I took out my phone and began to play music for her, songs that Nic and I had listened to together for years, songs that she normally couldn’t resist singing along with, her voice more pure and lovely than mine had ever been. I sat at her side and held her hand and played the Pretenders’ “Back on the Chain Gang” and Siouxsie and the Banshees’ “Hong Kong Garden” and David Bowie’s “Heroes.” I played the Velvet Underground and Cat Power and Cowboy Junkies and the Rolling Stones and Sonic Youth. Nic was raised on these songs. I sang along to each of them, hoping she’d open her eyes and join me.

  When Patti Smith’s version of “Rock ’n’ Roll Star” came on, I turned up the volume and Stephanie didn’t bat an eye. In fact, I was pretty sure I heard her humming along. The sun that streamed through the window gave way to softer evening light and then darkness. Nic’s pale skin took on a disturbingly peaceful glow, specks of dust shining in the air above her.

  I sat by my daughter’s side and sang to her, checking the time after each song ended, desperate for her to wake up or, failing that, for time to slow. How would I possibly sign a form that gave Dr. Feldman permission to drill into my daughter’s head? It was unfathomable. I scrolled through the songs in my phone, fully aware that it was bizarre that I was more willing to place my faith in music than medicine.

  My fingers paused over Janis Joplin’s “Piece of My Heart.” It was the song that Nic had been born to, playing out of the pitiful little stereo that I’d insisted Tyler bring into the delivery room. If this was the song that Nic had first opened her eyes to fourteen years ago, maybe it could perform the same magic today?

  I pressed play.

  It had been a while since I’d listened to the song, and I’d almost forgotten how plaintive, how bluesy and broken and lush Joplin’s voice was. I leaned toward Nic, tears streaming down my face, and sang. I was so close to her that my breath made the baby hairs around her ear move. I pressed my palm to the perfect skin of her cheek. I sang and cried about breaking off pieces of my heart, offering vital pieces of myself in the name of love.

  “ ‘Take it!’ ” I begged my daughter, wishing it could be that easy. I would crack myself open if it would make her whole.

  Nic’s eyelid flickered.

  My pulse leapt.

  “Nic!”

  Stephanie rushed to the other side of the bed. “Keep talking to her,” she said, picking up Nic’s wrist. “Keep singing.”

  So I did. Janis and I sang together and Nic’s eyelid trembled again. Her pointer finger moved in my hand, the sweetest touch I’d ever felt.

  And then she opened her eyes.

  She blinked a few times and moved her lips. A flicker of confusion passed over her face, like a storm that only makes the sun seem brighter when it finally appears.

  She looked into my eyes.

  She smiled.

  “Hi,” she said.

  I laughed. “Oh, Nic!” I hugged her, my face damp with the tears that I’d been shedding for hours.

  “Hi” had been Nic’s first word as a fourteen-month-old, delivered with the same open, joyful smile that she gave me in that hospital room when she finally opened her eyes. “It’s the perfect first word for a future extrovert,” I’d joked to my friends when she was a baby. I was proud. I thought of Nic as social and chatty right up until the moment that I realized she wasn’t either of those things. Or maybe she changed in the months following that first word. Babies change so much, every few weeks becoming someone new. Either way, I soon realized that Nic’s bright “Hi!” was—maybe forever—for my ears only.

  So when she looked up into my eyes from that hospital bed and gave me her special Nic “Hi,” the relief that I felt was staggering. The Nic-sized break in my heart was sealed by Nic herself. The love of my life had opened her eyes and smiled at me. All was right in the world.

  And then Nic’s eyes flicked away from mine.

  “Hi,” she said, aiming that same gorgeous, open smile at Stephanie.

  My heart seemed to react first, beating out a thunderous warning. When I hit the pause button on Janis’s singing, I saw that my hand was shaking. The room sank into quiet.

  “Well, ‘hi’ right back at you, sweetheart,” said Stephanie. “You don’t know how happy I am to see those pretty eyes of yours. Green, no less!” She leaned closer to my daughter. “Can you tell me your name?”

  Nic started to push herself up on the bed, then winced.

  “What hurts?” Stephanie asked.

  “My head. My side.” Nic’s brow furrowed as she took stock of her body. She swallowed. “Actually, everything hurts a little and nothing hurts a lot.” She smiled. “And my name is Nicola Clement.”

  My heartbeat thundered again. Everything hurts a little and nothing hurts a lot. I’d never heard Nic say something so quick and clever to someone she’d just met.

  Even the way Nic had said her own name caused alarm bells to go off within me. She usually said her name as though it were a question, as though she were giving you the option to call her by it or instead pick another name more to your liking.

  Stephanie was as charmed as I was concerned. She leaned in
conspiratorially to Nic. “I’ll up your meds a smidge to tackle that pain problem. Meantime, can you tell me what day it is?”

  “It’s September . . . something. It’s definitely Tuesday.” Her confident voice trailed off as she looked beyond Stephanie. Her gaze wandered the room, taking in the blinking machines that surrounded her, the navy sky beyond the window. When her eyes landed on me, there was a questioning look in them. “Or, it was Tuesday . . .”

  The door swung open and Dr. Feldman walked in.

  “Hello,” he said, taking Stephanie’s place on the other side of the bed. “I’m Dr. Feldman. What’s your name?”

  Nic lifted her hand and held it out to Dr. Feldman, who shook it gently, smiling. “Nic.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, Nic. Do you know where you are?”

  “Let’s see,” Nic began, a twinkle forming in her eye. “I’m lying in a hospital bed in what appears to be a hospital room, so . . . I’m gonna go with Disneyland? Final answer.”

  I sucked in my breath, unable to hide my surprise at Nic’s joke. Behind me, Stephanie let out a trill of laughter.

  “She’s sharp!” Stephanie said.

  “I wish my tests at school were this easy,” Nic said. She was still smiling, but I noticed that her voice was beginning to flag. She sounded alert, but tired.

  “Do you know why you’re here?” Dr. Feldman asked. “Do you remember what happened?”

  Nic’s brow furrowed. She looked at me and I nodded encouragingly and squeezed her hand. “Was I in an accident?” she asked me.

  I felt oddly touched by her uncertainty. “You were—”

  Dr. Feldman cleared his throat. “What do you remember, Nic?”

  She looked at him. “Well, I remember being at the barn.”

  “Good,” I said. “That’s good, Nic.” I couldn’t help myself.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” asked Dr. Feldman.

  Nic looked down at her hands. “I remember grooming Tru . . .” She trailed off.

  “Did you go riding?”